


I Don't Wanna Go

by Catchclaw



Series: Abacab [5]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, POV First Person, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-03
Updated: 2012-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-03 00:19:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries not to worry about the future. And almost succeeds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Don't Wanna Go

Dean snores.

Like, holy god, wake-the-dead, break-out-the-Cryptkeeper kind of snoring.

Jesus.

It’s one thing to know that, to hear it almost every night of your life from just across the room, or even from the other side of the same bed, but damn does it suck to have right in your fucking ear, all night long, just because he rolls over and decides to twist himself around you. To kinda hang on for dear life.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself, every hour, on the hour, when I woke up last night, his mouth behind my ear, his arms around my waist, his fingers locked into mine.

I kept telling myself: This sucks. I just want to sleep.

But the other part of me, the part that was still kind of stunned by what had happened, by the feel of his skin under my hands without a needle or a bandage or blood in between. That part was more like: Wow. This is nice. Having him right here, like this. Close.

They kept battling it out all night, those two sides, those two parts of me, and when I woke up at the right time, finally—the sun in the curtains, Dean snuffling and semi-conscious—I was exhausted and stupid happy all at once.

But I was more awake than him, which is why I got the first shower, why I’m letting the water hit me in the face, right now.

And I’m trying to not to think, to just tip back and relax and enjoy the hot water but I can’t help it. I keep coming back to this one thing. The only thing that worries me, which is:

What if he wants to talk about it?

And, yeah, I realize how ironic that is, that would be, in his mind. Me shying away from talking or whatever. But it feels like there’s a spell around us now, like a web of something ours that’s holding us here, together. And I don’t wanna break it.

Which is what I’m afraid will happen, if we talk about it, because what is “it,” anyway, exactly? I mean, it’s him and me and sex, I guess, him and me and kissing, him and me and something in the air that’s different, that’s—

That’s better, I think.

Honestly? It’s better than I thought it would be. Than I hoped it would.

Even when he kissed me last night—in the car, soft and slow; in the bed, almost frantic—there was part of me just waiting for him to run. To punch me in the nuts. Kicked me in the head, or something. Whatever it would take to get away. From me.

But he didn’t.

And what he did to me, what I did for him, what happened between us: it was good, I think. Really, really good.

So I don’t want to fuck it up, I guess is what I mean. I don’t want to be the one to say the wrong thing, to do something wrong. To be the one who asks for too much.

We can hang out here for awhile, as far as I’m concerned. Enjoy it while it lasts.

Because I’m happy, goddamn it. Finally. And I know it won’t last forever, because what the hell does “forever” even mean, for us? So I don’t want to be the one to screw it up.

I shove the washcloth over my neck and get this picture of him in my mind, from when he was in high school, I think. Maybe just after. Of him young and dumb and cocky. Dad was yelling at me, I was yelling back, and Dean stepped right between us, like we were a couple of kids he had to separate on the playground. Wasn’t the first time he’d done it, at all, but he was so casual about it, this time; that’s what I remember. Like it was nothing, sticking his head between two loaded shotguns like that.

He was facing me, his face calm and regular and just—Dean. Just him. It was a split second, I guess, him standing there, looking at me like that, but I have this snapshot of his face in my mind that makes it feel like longer.

“Sammy,” he said, before Dad could start bellowing again. “C’mon. I’ll let you drive.”

And he took my arm and led me out and she was parked right there, by the door. He threw me the keys and I got in and I saw Dad just leaning against the doorframe, looking back at us and shaking his head. Not yelling. Not trying to come after us, just—resigned, I think.

Like he knew he couldn’t take on both of us. Not anymore.

Maybe he knew we weren’t afraid of him. Not in the same way. I know I wasn’t, after that.

Dean had always protected me, or whatever. The best he could. But after that, I felt like it was more mutual, the protecting. That if we were together, we’d be ok. Even against Dad.

So of course, I was the one who left. Who left him.

The water’s getting cold. I’d better get out before it’s all gone.

Maybe that’s what I’m nervous about, now.

We’re together, in the way that I wanted. And I’m happy. I feel kind of invincible, with him, now.

Maybe I’m the one who’s gonna leave. Again.

I wrap a towel around my waist and open the door. He’s sprawled out on the bed, awake and drooling over _SportsCenter_.

“Hey,” he says, lifting his head. “Dude, you missed this outfielder doing a header into the Green Monster.”

“What a tragedy,” I say, yawning. Looking around for my jeans. Trying not to smile because he looks so much like himself, like how I see him, right now, that it’s almost funny.

He sits all the way up and ok, his hair is hilarious, pointed and flat and sideways all at once.

He grins at me. Reaches for me as I walk by him and I fall over, fall next to him, my jeans clutched in my fist, my towel making a break for it.

He leans over me, drops his mouth just over mine, the bastard. Hovers.

“Hey,” he says again, touching his tongue to my lips. Pulling away.

I stretch my hand up and close it around his neck. Pull him back.

“Dean,” I say, the word getting lost in his throat. And there’s no room for thinking, for talking, after that.


End file.
